by Ty Patterson
He turned on the TV and followed the news as he ate. Kevin Rubin, presidential candidate, being interviewed on a talk show.
Cutter turned the volume up and listened.
He was running as an independent and, despite his outsider status, had gathered an enormous following all over the country. He got more screen time than the candidates from the mainstream parties. President Morgan, serving out his second term, got far less coverage.
He had a fascinating backstory.
Family who had made it big in oil. Inherited wealth. White supremacist in his early years. Gained notoriety while in college and at the start of his career in hedge funds. He went on radio shows and drew fans. Built on that platform and started his own newspaper. He was a celebrity. Dated Hollywood stars, those who didn’t mind associating with him. Lived a flashy life. By the time he was in his thirties, there wasn’t anyone in the US who hadn’t heard of him.
And then it came crashing down.
He was arrested for white-collar crime. He had defrauded his business partners in an investment firm. He served a year in prison and came out as a reformed person.
He rejected his supremacy beliefs. Told the world that he had been young, naïve and foolish. Became an ethical investor, backed companies that made a positive difference to society. A few of his companies made it big, and that catapulted him to billionaire status.
That was when he discovered his love for politics and threw his hat into the presidential race.
Rubin was charismatic, and his strong oratorical skills spread his message around. Strong government and community focus.
His poll performance had surprised everyone. He was trailing the Veep, Bryan Thyssen, who was the lead contender, but had beaten all other candidates. Many analysts figured that if elections were to be held the next day, he just could end up being the country’s second truly independent president, after George Washington.
Experts also believed many senior politicians from one or both the major parties would come out and support him once he increased his lead in the polls.
Cutter listened to him for a while as the candidate expounded on his beliefs. Hollywood couldn’t have scripted his story better.
He turned off the TV when he finished his dinner and cleaned up. He extracted his Benchmade and washed it. Wiped it dry and inserted it back in its kydex sheath. He had cut the strap to small pieces, which were now part of the city’s sewage.
He turned on his laptop and opened his cloud account. Yeah, his jacket camera had worked. All its videos were in there.
He played the one from Mother Gaston. Good picture quality. Decent audio, too. The surveillance device had captured his fight, too.
His smile faded when the leader’s face came up during the attack. He did look Caucasian. No scars, no tattoo—whoa!
Cutter straightened and paused the video. Wound it back and played it again.
His camera had captured Leader’s profile when he had sidestepped just before crashing him against the car. There, on the neck.
A lion’s head. Well etched.
Similar to the one he had seen at the bodega.
He tore his eyes away from the screen and made a call to a cop who owed him favors.
‘Mother Gaston? Yeah, we found a backpack underneath a car. Full of baggies. Some oxy, most of them meth.’
‘And the dealers?’
‘No one there. Someone reported a knifing but no bodies, no perps, just the drugs.’
Leader and his man got away.
13
‘What will you tell her?’
Arnedra, the next day in their office, when he had finished recounting his surveillance.
‘Carmel?’ Cutter made a face. ‘Nothing for now. I think I connected with Darrell at the very end. He just might quit the gang. I’ll shadow him some more. See what he gets up to.’
‘If he’s still hanging out with them?’
‘I might confront him.’
‘Leaving criminals isn’t easy.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ll work something out.’
He shook his head at the utter confidence in her voice.
‘It’s not as straight up as giving up a club membership.’
‘You’ll come up with something.’
* * *
‘Difiore,’ the detective barked when he called her.
‘No howdy? No, how are you? No, I missed you?’
‘I didn’t miss you.’
Cops were like that. They loved him but pretended they hated his guts.
‘I’m hurt.’
‘I meant to ask you the other day,’ he continued when she didn’t respond. ‘Boyce, the man I shot. Did he have a tattoo on his neck?’
‘Why?’
‘Come on, Gina,’ he coaxed. ‘Yes or no?’
‘Difiore,’ she told him bluntly, ‘we aren’t friends. It won’t end there. You’ll ask what kind, if I say yes. You’ll ask more questions.’
Finding out her first name hadn’t been hard, with his contacts.
‘So, that’s a yes?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
Do I tell her about the gang? Can I keep Darrell out of it?
‘Off the record?’
‘I’m an NYPD detective. Nothing’s off the record.’
‘You know I have contacts. I can find out easily enough.’
‘Ask them.’
She hung up.
Cutter sighed. He had been doing a lot more of it ever since he had come across this detective.
He ran through the list of people he knew. Nope. He couldn’t ask Rolando. He was too high up, and besides, he didn’t want to compromise his friend.
There was another detective. Someone he had helped.
‘Wayne?’
‘Cutter! How are you, buddy?’
That was more like it. Gina Difiore had probably skipped NYPD’s Tips on Being Polite training.
‘I’m good. How are the kids?’
‘Killing me,’ responded Wayne Poser, detective second grade with SID, Special Investigations Division. ‘Why did I think I had to shoot for three?’
‘How’s Milly?’
Milly Poser, the cop’s wife. Ran a charity for street kids, one of whom Cutter had helped leave a gang.
‘She’s spending more time at the shop. You think she’s got someone on the side?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
Twelve years of marriage hadn’t dimmed the couple’s romance.
‘You made the news. The kids told their friends about you. They’re the cool crowd now.’
‘I haven’t seen them in a while. Hey, you know Difiore?’
‘Gina, yeah. She was my mentor a while ago.’
Cutter grimaced. Of all the cops to pick on, he had to call Wayne. He’ll be close to her.
‘A problem?’
‘No, nothing to do with her. I’m chasing a lead and it reminded me of the holdup. I called her and, you know—’
‘Yeah, she’s a badass. She didn’t help?’
‘Nope.’
‘You want to know something?’
‘Not if it will put you in a tight spot.’
‘Ask me. I’ll decide.’
‘That holdup. One of the dudes had a lion’s tattoo. Or something that looked like it.’
‘You want to see what exactly it was?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can do that. But you got to turn up for dinner.’
‘Deal.’
Keys clicked. Poser hummed beneath his breath. He grunted abruptly. His chair squeaked.
‘You’d better talk to Gina.’
‘Huh?’
‘That’s all I can tell you.’ And he hung up.
* * *
One Police Plaza, OnePP, downtown Manhattan. HQ to the NYPD, where Major Cases, a SID team was based.
Cutter frowned as he approached the brutal-looking concrete building, which stood out from its surroundings. Major Cases didn’t investigate bodega holdu
ps. Bank robberies, hijackings, kidnappings—that’s what they deal with. Why’s she looking into this?
He walked around the building to the Avenue of the Finest, where the exit of the parking lot met Pearl Street. Bought a drink from the coffee joint and leaned against the metal framework of the awning overhead.
He fingered his phone. He could ask Poser, but he doubted the detective would give him any more intel. Not from the way he hung up. He could ask Beth or Meghan, and they could easily check out why Difiore was investigating a small case. They could also look up the tattoo. Nope to that, too. They had their missions.
He sipped his coffee as he considered what he knew of Difiore. Detective First Grade, the senior-most rank. Recipient of several medals and awards. Got covered in national media for her role in taking down a bank robbery gang. Highly reputed cop who was going places.
No one mentioned her attitude, he thought, grinning to himself. Or maybe that’s just for me.
He straightened at seven pm, when he spotted her car, a silver Chevy, nosing past the concrete barriers.
She’s alone. That was good. He stepped out on the exit road, drink in hand. Hoped that she wouldn’t shoot him or run him over.
The detective seemed to say something to herself, and then her flasher lit and she rolled to the side.
She rolled down her window. ‘Are you stalking me?’
‘Nope. I—’
‘How did you know I would be here? That this is my car?’
‘I have my ways.’
‘Like calling your friend, the commish?’
Commish, aka NYPD Police Commissioner.
Cutter squeezed the paper cup involuntarily. Relax, he admonished himself. Anyone would want to know, in her position.
‘He’s not the only one I know,’ he replied mildly.
She checked him out with hostile eyes and then seemed to make a decision.
‘What is it?’
‘That tattoo. Boyce had one, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’
He fist-pumped internally. Getting her to acknowledge that was a win, however small.
‘What kind?’
‘Why do you want to know? Why are you interested?’
‘I thought I saw another such tattoo.’
She gave him an incredulous look. ‘You realize this city has eight million people. Several million will have tattoos. Chances are, thousands will have a lion’s head inked on their necks.’ She clamped her lips tight when she realized what she had admitted.
‘Did it look like this?’
He showed her the sketch he had made.
She took it warily and inspected it. Her eyes flicked at him in surprise. ‘This is very good. You did this?’
‘Yeah.’ Not much else to do in a super-max prison.
‘Yes. This is how his tattoo was.’
‘No gang connection, you said.’
‘Yeah. What do you know that I don’t?’
‘Nothing.’
She was out of her car in an instant, her face darkening in fury.
‘Listen,’ she hissed. ‘You’re holding something back.’
‘You have to trust me. Please.’
‘Trust you?’ she scoffed. ‘You’re interfering in an active NYPD investigation.’
‘Yeah, about that. You’re with Major Crimes. Why are you looking into this?’
‘Ever heard of Task Force, dude?’ she sneered. ‘And, don’t change the subject. TELL ME!’ She slammed her palm on her roof. The cop in the security hut at the concrete barrier came out, nodded once when she waved at him and returned to his position.
‘I can’t. Not now. I need to run something through.’
‘I can bring you in, and all your high-powered contacts won’t stop me.’
‘Look, Difiore. I can guess what you think of me. That I’m sorta like a vigilante—’
‘You are.’
‘I’m sure you spoke to various cops who know me. What did they say?’
She refused to answer.
‘They said I was unorthodox,’ he quoted what Rolando had told him once, ‘but I didn’t break the law and helped the cops whenever I could, didn’t they?’
She didn’t look at him.
‘That tattoo. I saw it on a gang member.’ He decided to give a little.
‘Where?’ She whipped her head around.
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘Grogan,’ she grated through clenched teeth, ‘if I find out—’
‘You’ll know what I know. Give me some time.’
‘One day.’
‘A week.’
‘No—’
‘I’ll need that much. Meanwhile, you can question Boyce and his friends again. Where he got that ink done. Whether he’s hiding that he’s part of a gang.’
‘I can’t. They’re all dead.’
14
Cutter stared at her dumbly, then went to the coffee window and got two more drinks. Handed one to her wordlessly, took his first swallow and cleared his throat.
‘Dead? How? When?’
‘The day you called me,’ she spit out savagely, ‘they went for dinner. The three of them, in Queens. That’s where they lived. Friends since high school. They were T-boned by a box truck.’
‘That can’t be an accident.’
‘It was,’ she said wearily. ‘Driver was drunk. Well over the limit. He gave himself up immediately. He’s got a few drunk-driving violations. Nothing else.’
‘That gang—’
‘Grogan, read my lips. This wasn’t a gang killing.’
Cutter drank the rest of his coffee, crushed the cup and dumped it in a bin. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘It’s too coincidental.’
‘That happens.’
Her lips twisted in a sly smile. ‘Poser sits behind me. I can hear his calls. I knew he was talking to you. I messaged him. Asked him how he would like to get back to patrol. He hung up on you.’
‘He’s my friend.’
‘And he’s my mentee.’
‘Used to be, I understand.’
‘That relationship never ends.’
He sighed. There would be only one winner in a headbutting contest with her. It won’t be me.
‘That bodega holdup,’ he said, changing tack. ‘Have you looked up any other attacks?’
‘Hundreds of such crimes in the city.’
‘I mean, where the owners were targeted.’
‘Like how?’
‘Racially targeted.’
She straightened. Gave him an impassive look. ‘We’re done talking. You’ll get nothing else from me until you tell me what you know. You’ve got my number.’
He watched until her car joined the traffic on Pearl Street. What did she mean by that? There are more such crimes? Or was Difiore just being herself, stubborn, unreadable?
Cutter gave up. He had two threads to pursue. He decided to follow up on the easiest one.
* * *
‘Who is he?’ Peyton Quindica, FBI SAC, Special Agent in Charge, jammed her phone between shoulder and ear as her fingers flew over her keyboard.
‘He calls himself a fixer,’ Difiore replied over a clank of metal. ‘Hostage rescue. Missing persons. That kind of thing.’
‘Like a PI?’
‘He’s not licensed, and he takes on more dangerous work than most investigators. I’ve sent his file across to you. He must be in your system too. He’s well-connected. There are senior people in the NYPD who vouch for him.’
‘How senior?’
‘All the way to the top.’
Quindica blew hair out of her eyes as she considered the detective’s words.
‘Cops have referred him to some victims. I think he’s gotten a few clients that way from you folks as well.’
‘FBI?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How much does he know about the Task Force?’
‘Nothing. But he could find out, with his contacts.’
‘He won’t,’ Quindica assured her. ‘Li
ke I said before, we are as covert as we can get. Only a handful of people, at the very top at your end and mine, know of us.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’
‘Yeah. Grogan. You think we should shake him?’
‘Nothing would give me more pleasure,’ Difiore declared. ‘But I gave him my word. Let’s wait to hear from him.’
‘Keep on top. Let’s sweat him if he doesn’t turn up with anything.’
‘I sure as heck will.’
Quindica grinned at the enthusiasm in the detective’s voice and hung up. She stifled a yawn and stretched. Rubbed her eyes and returned to her screen.
* * *
She headed the multi-agency team that had been formed when her case overlapped with Difiore’s.
She had been looking into white supremacists infiltrating law enforcement. The detective had been investigating a string of crimes that seemed to have racial connotations.
Bart Jamison, the FBI Director, had convened a meeting with NYPD’s Commissioner, which resulted in creation of the task force.
When they met, the FBI SAC liked what she saw in the detective. She recognized another super-smart, dedicated law enforcement officer. Both of them came from minority backgrounds: Quindica with her Chinese-Polynesian roots, Difiore with her Latin background. They had to overcome systemic and institutional biases, along with certain societal views. They’d had to wear invisible armor as they rose through the ranks to reach their positions.
The detective had further impressed her when she didn’t start any turf wars within the task force. Instead, she saw the joint investigation as an opportunity. With the FBI’s reach and resources and the NYPD’s street savvy, they could get things done.
Quindica’s only concern had been Griffen. ‘He’s a great cop,’ Difiore had assured her. ‘That act he puts on, getting in people’s faces, is just that.’ The SAC didn’t make a fuss, and as she came to know the NYPD team, she found the detective was right.
Progress had been slow, and there was little to show for their suspicions. Other than Gina’s cases. She cracked her knuckles and massaged a crick in her neck. They had come across the red lion tattoo on some of those arrested, all of them white perps. No known link to any gang, however.